Maybe this Year
by Stuff'nStuff
Summary: Adjusting to life in New York was hard. Ace had to get used to a totally different lifestyle, not to mention learning to deal with living half-blind and with the trauma of his last two months in hell. So be it walking into door frames, looking for acceptance in a biased society or learning what it means to actually love, it's going to be a challenge. But at least he's not alone.
1. Chapter 1

(Why did I post this? Good question. Maybe it's because my brain has LITERALLY exploded upwards of ten times since school started. I swear, this year is going to be the death of me. So that's why I'm choosing to do a one shot that I really felt like writing tonight instead of updating Bleeding Out. Because if there's one thing in my life for enjoyment, it's fanfiction. So I'm going to enjoy it, dammit! And I hope you can too, even if you'd rather have an update for Bleeding Out. I promise I'll get back to it once I have the time and energy in my life, but unfortunately that may not be for a while. But it will see conclusion eventually.

So, this story is essentially just going to be a compilation of probably loosely related one shots, all in the same universe as Off to the Races, but after the events of Off to the Races. Or scenes that didn't quite fit into the actual Off to the Races but I couldn't find it in my heart to scrap. There'll be angst, drama, romance, fluff, humor…whatever floats my boat at the time. You can choose which ones to read and not read at your own discretion. Warnings, as ever, will be posted at the beginning of chapters. So yeah. Hope you enjoy this new story. Oh, and if my writing style comes off as different than usual…I'm kind of super grumpy tonight, so that may have an effect on my tone.

This particular one shot takes place shortly after Ace woke up from his coma, before he started classes, and before he and Marco got together.

**WARNING: this chapter contains SWEARING and PROBABLE OOCNESS**)

* * *

"God fucking damn it!"

Ace walked into a lot of doors, learning to live with only half his vision.

He rubbed grouchily at his right shoulder, which he'd managed to slam into the doorframe. For, like, the 80000 time that week. He _refused_ to use a cane. He wasn't entirely blind, and he'd find a way to adjust. He didn't want the world to perceive him as weak, crippled. He'd lived through worse. He'd find a way to deal with this too.

Having passed through the doorway, he shakily made his way down the hall to his next obstacle: the stairs. He'd only been out of his coma for about 4 weeks, and the majority of that time had been spent in bed. He was still a little unsteady on his feet, as their long time out of use had left his legs somewhat weakened.

_Of fucking course the railing would be on the right side._ Ace had to crane his neck awkwardly far to grab for the support, unwilling to bruise his fingers searching for it blind.

The journey down the stairs was…relatively uneventful. Leaning heavily on the railing, Ace made his way down slowly. _12, 13, 14, 15._ Ace stepped carefully off the last stair and onto the wood floor. _Alright. So far so good._ The kitchen was just around the corner. Marco had said he wouldn't be home for a while – he'd gone out to run some errands – and Ace figured he'd like some lunch when he got home.

Ace recognized his position in the house was little more than a burden. Marco insisted he was entirely welcome, but damn if Ace didn't feel useless. He'd made it a goal to be useful in any way he could, even if the barest of menial tasks was now twice as difficult. Marco said he should be resting, recuperating, but Ace felt he'd done more than enough sleeping than was rationally fair recently. Two weeks was longer than _anyone_ could fairly sleep. And not only that, but his uselessness had even persisted _after_ that. Apparently after being in a coma as long as Ace had been there was a set period of 'fall-risk' time. During that time Marco had outright _prohibited_ him from walking or really moving at all, and even took the first week off work to take care of him. Ace couldn't fathom it, couldn't fathom why Marco would be willing to devote so much time and effort. Still didn't really understand it. But he was doing everything in his power – however now limited that may be – to make it up to Marco. Because even if he didn't understand it, he was grateful. He didn't think he'd ever be able to fully repay Marco for his kindness, but he could try.

Ace bent, opening a cupboard and pulling out a pot. He wasn't a pro cook or anything, but he'd had to be self-sufficient for a _long_ time. He didn't make complex dishes – he'd never spent his money on stuff like expensive ingredients – but it wasn't a disadvantage. Now he could make something at least marginally edible out of just the stuff lying around.

Marco had gone to get groceries along with other necessities, so they _were_ low on ingredients. But Ace, after a rather involved ransacking of the pantry, was able to recover enough. Pasta, basil (Marco kept a little plant in the windowsill), butter, olive oil. Yup. Simple, but it'd be fine. Ace would've killed for some fresh cherry tomatoes though. Or some grilled chicken.

Ace turned on the faucet, beginning to fill the pot with water. He sighed, listening to the quiet whush of the water into the pot. If you'd asked him, three months ago, where he thought he'd be now, he would've said community college. If you'd asked him two months ago, he would've said he'd be six feet under. Or using his head as a bullet-holder. Ace swallowed, feeling his heart shudder in his chest. Two months ago. It wasn't long enough. He wanted _years_ between him and then. A lifetime. An eternity. Because the memories were too fresh, and the risk was still too high.

They might still come after him.

Ace felt his stomach twist into a knot, his spine tense to the point of pain at the very thought. He couldn't go back. He couldn't. He'd die. He'd _rather_ die. Not to mention Marco, caring, inscrutable, _naïve_ Marco would probably try to save him. And Ace couldn't stand to have Marco's death on his hands.

He could see it so clearly in his mind. Dead of night. Neighbors paid off, or somehow held-up. The front door kicked down. They'd go for ferocity over subtlety, because this was a _lesson._ To get the message through to everyone else: you can't run. You can't hide. You can't get away. There is no 'away'. They're _everywhere_. They will find you. And then they'd just walk right in. Marco, the light sleeper, would be at the stairs by the time Ace had managed to bang into his doorframe. Ace could picture his expression. Moonlight washed over his face, bent in confusion, concern, and some degree of outrage. And then-

Ace clapped a hand over his mouth, swallowing back vomit, his heart hammering against his ribs, tears rising in his eyes. He tried to breathe deeply, tried to settle his frazzled nerves. He closed his eyes, swallowing forcefully once more, bidding his tears to recede. God, he'd never forgive himself. Not if Marco died for him. Because Marco was everything Ace wasn't. Vibrant. Pure. _Valuable._ And Ace, tainted, broken-

The pot overflowed.

"Shit." Ace snapped himself out of his thoughts, shutting off the water. He rubbed his eyes. _Jesus, Ace. Pull yourself together. If you look upset when Marco get's back you're going to make him worry even _more_._ Ace took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. "Okay, Ace. Just make lunch, alright? Preferably _without_ breaking anything."

* * *

"Holy shit. How long has it freaking _been_ since I last saw you? Has to have been _at least_ a month." Thatch threw an arm around Marco's shoulders, causing him to overbalance dangerously. "We were getting worried about you!" His voice echoed with mock concern, but he was grinning widely. Marco snorted, shrugging off Thatch's arm.

"Oh please. I've been _fine._ You and Pops are such big worrywarts! It's not like a need a babysitter," he said, bemused. Thatch's smile melted somewhat, falling to a more serious expression.

"But honestly, what have you been up to? Any time we could actually catch you on the phone – briefly, I may add – you always said you were 'busy'. The last time you were too busy to visit, you were working on your _thesis_, for Christ's sake. What could be so important?" Marco sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"That's…actually kind of why I called you today." Thatch straightened slightly, looking interested. He waited for Marco to continue. Marco glanced at him briefly, and if Thatch didn't know better, he'd say Marco looked _nervous._ After another moment of silence, Marco took a deep breath, seeming to come to a decision.

"I…It's kind of a hard story to tell." Thatch was getting more and more curious. Whatever it was, it had clearly had a huge impact on Marco. For it to be important enough to him for him to not visit? Very little in the world outweighed Marco's sense of familial obligation. Thatch's eyes widened.

"HOLY FUCKING SHIT. YOU FINALLY FOUND A STABLE RELATIONSHIP, DIDN'T YOU?!" Marco, first looking bewildered by his outburst, blanched.

"Oh _God_ no. I would _never-_ not after all that's happened- _No,"_ he stammered, flustered. "_No,"_ he finally settled on, still ruffled.

"Oh," Thatch said, back to perfect calm as if he _hadn't_ just turned the whole _block's_ heads with his volume. "Well then, what is it?" Marco sighed again, resettling the grocery bags in his grip.

"…Do you remember that case I took a few months ago? I know I told you about it." Thatch quirked an eyebrow at him.

"You're going to have to be a tad more specific than that. You tell me _a lot_ about your work." Marco looked down at the pavement, still walking.

"…You know. In October. When I was working as a state lawyer? Well…there was that one case, with that kid who claimed to have been drugged by the cops?"

"Oh yeah! The prostitute, right?" Marco stiffened slightly.

"…Right," he said, a little tightly. He considered his words for a minute, then continued. "Well, as you know, I got him back to Chicago without even a trial, and he was all set to go to college." Marco hesitated, suddenly unsure. Was this a good idea? Ace still wasn't entirely comfortable being around _him._ How would he even _handle_ Thatch? Marco suddenly didn't think Ace was ready for this. But another part of him argued that he _needed_ to have social interaction again, so that he could rejoin society. He couldn't hide forever, and Marco knew he wouldn't want to. But he just didn't know if _today_ was the day. Maybe he should have let Ace get more comfortable first. He didn't know what would trigger Ace, only that it didn't take much these days. And Thatch wasn't exactly one for delicacy.

"…I'm waiting." Thatch supplied quietly, indirectly asking Marco to continue. He must have seen some of the conflict on Marco's face, because his voice and expression were more serious than before. Marco sighed.

"…Well he didn't get to college." Marco swallowed, feeling a familiar dull ache in his chest. Sorrow. Perhaps even guilt. Ace had _deserved_ to get to college, after all that. What had stopped him? "Something, I don't know what, happened. He-" Marco sighed again. His voice dropped to a murmur. "He ended up in the hospital. Here, in New York. I don't know how he got here, I don't know what happened to him. All I know is he was in there for an overdose. An overdose that left him in a coma and _half blind._ When he woke up, he was terrified. Of everything, everyone. Even me. But I don't know if that's from the overdose or something else. I've…I've been trying to help. Kind of…rehabilitate him. Give him a second chance." A moment of silence fell.

"…Are you sure he deserves it?" Marco's gaze snapped to Thatch, instantly defensive, but Thatch met his gaze evenly, voice firm. "You said you don't know what happened. What if it's not what you think? What if he didn't go to college just because he didn't want to?" Marco felt his temper flaring, but Thatch's gaze and voice wasn't angry or accusatory. "I don't know anything about this kid. I've never met him, I hardly know his name. That's why I'm _asking you_, Marco. _Is he worth your effort?_" Marco had frozen in his tracks, and Thatch stopped too. His gaze softened. "I'm your brother, Marco. All I want is to see you happy. If helping this kid is making you happy, then I'm all for it. I just don't want to see you taken advantage of." Marco relaxed, but sadness colored his gaze.

"…Trust me. Nobody could fake what I've seen in his eyes." Thatch searched his face for a minute longer, then relented, smile returning.

"Alright." He turned and started walking again, clasping his hands behind his head. "Enough of this depressing stuff. You promised me food and it's damn cold out here, so let's pick up the pace, Pokey!" And with a last flashed grin over his shoulder, Thatch was off, somewhere between a jog and a sprint. They were only about a block from Marco's house (the _very_ outskirts of the city. Living was _slightly_ more affordable – and pleasant – here, but hell if he didn't have a long commute in the morning), and at his pace, Thatch would be there in under a minute. Marco chuckled.

"Oh sorry princess of the universe. Does our February climate not live up to your standards? Please forgive the earth for tilting away from the sun this time of year," he said, probably too low for Thatch to actually-

"HEY! I HEARD THAT!" Marco laughed. He'd missed Thatch. Thatch and his damn unexplainable ability to cheer him up.

Since Ace had woke up…Marco would be lying if he said it'd been a picnic. It wasn't that Ace had offended or in any way wronged him, it was just…hard. Seeing him like that. When Marco had met Ace what seemed now like an eternity ago, he'd been electric. Vibrant. Alive. After the overdose…well, ever since he'd been terrified. Crushed. Everything about him, all that motivation and passion, it had just been…shredded. Marco didn't know what, but Ace had been through _something_ that had entirely destroyed him. And picking up the pieces wasn't easy. He flinched every time Marco so much as brushed against him. If Marco happened to approach on his blind side and wasn't quite loud enough to catch Ace's attention, when Ace finally did notice him he nearly jumped out of his skin. And at the hospital, with people Ace hadn't known at all? It was worse. Marco couldn't forget the look of complete terror on Ace's face when unfamiliar doctors touched him. And it didn't end when he was released from the hospital. He had nightmares. Marco would sometimes find him sitting bolt upright in bed, clutching his arms close to his chest, shuddering, white as a sheet. He never spoke of the nightmares. He never spoke of what had happened. Marco had tried, once, to ask delicately, but Ace had practically shut down, and Marco wouldn't breach that subject again, not if it really hurt Ace that much to even _think_ about.

But Marco knew that in order to readjust, Ace needed to have human interaction beyond just him. It was why he'd invited Thatch over. Thatch, for all of his overexcitement and bravado, was the least intimidating of Marco's family. Izou would have probably been the best personality-wise, but Marco wasn't sure how Ace would react to Izou's particular…style. Namur and Jozu were too physically intimidating – Marco didn't want Ace to feel like there was any kind of threat, even if Marco knew there wasn't one present. Pops, Marco was sure, would have been the most welcoming of all, but again, he didn't want Ace to be frightened. And pretty much everyone else was busy with their own lives, or out of town. And Marco only felt comfortable trusting his family with this one. It wasn't that he didn't trust his other friends, it was just with his family…Marco felt like he was more in control of the situation. That he knew more about it going in. That he could absolutely, entirely rely on them. And he wouldn't dream of putting Ace in a position he couldn't get him out of in a heartbeat. And Thatch, if unorthodox, was by nature a sympathetic, kind person. If he freaked Ace out, he'd back off.

Marco shook himself out of his thoughts, looked down the street, and blinked. _The hell?_ Thatch was…gone. Just…gone. But…where the hell could he have run off to? It's not like he'd have anywhere else to go at that particular moment and-

Oh fuck.

Marco's hand darted into his jacket pocket. He swore vehemently, finding nothing there, and began running for the door. The _open door._

Because Thatch, crafty, sticky-fingered bastard, had taken his house keys.

And Marco had forgotten to tell him where, exactly, Ace was currently living.

* * *

Ace didn't hear the door open. Didn't hear the footsteps across the floor. Didn't sense Thatch's now-cautious approach. It wasn't until Thatch spoke, directly behind him, that Ace became aware of his presence.

"Who're you." Thatch's voice was cold, none of its usual joviality lightening his tone. It wasn't even a question. Somewhere between demand and order. Ace jumped and whirled, eyes wide. He felt his chest tighten, his senses sharpen with adrenaline. His eyes darted past Thatch, searching for an exit, but Thatch had him effectively cornered between the wall and the stove. Maybe he could-

"Don't even think about it. Now answer me. Who. Are. You. What are you doing here?" Oh hell. Who was this guy? Ace didn't recognize him from Chicago, and he didn't have the accent. He _sounded_ like he was from New York.

"I…" Ace's hands scrabbled behind him, searching for something, anything he could use in self-defense. The stranger seemed to shift his weight forward and Ace automatically tried to take a step back, feeling his back collide with the countertop. He fumbled around desperately, searching for something, anything. Ace's heart was hammering against his ribcage and a thousand different scenarios of _exactly_ what was about to happen to him played through his head.

"Thatch, wait-!" Ace didn't pay attention to the voice or to who was speaking, only knew it was exactly the distraction he needed. Because in that moment his hand had found something. A handle. He didn't give a shit what it was. He grabbed it and, with as much force as he could muster, thrust it at the intruder's throat.

The object, it turned out, was a wooden spoon.

The stranger had started to turn his head, but the end of the spoon still hit squarely on his trachea. He stumbled back, clutching his throat, gasping and coughing, and Ace was around him in a second, all-out bolting for the door.

For one moment of wild elation, Ace thought he'd done it, thought he'd gotten away, thought he'd made it to safety-

And then his right ankle hooked around a table leg he couldn't see.

"Son of a fuck!" He went crashing to the floor, throwing his arms up to try to break his fall. He landed hard (the floor was tile in the kitchen), grunting at the impact. He was about to push himself to his feet, adrenaline still screaming at him to run at _least_ six miles away, when he felt hands close around his torso, pulling him to his feet. He began writhing desperately, lashing out randomly until his hands collided with flesh, which he proceeded to shove against with all his might. Whoever was holding him was strong, however, and Ace made no progress.

"Ace! It's alright! It's me!" The voice barely registered on Ace's terrified mind, too preoccupied with the fact that someone was touching him and he _couldn't get away_ to actually process what he'd heard. "Ace, listen! It's okay! You're alright!" Ace shoved against the chest of whoever it was that was holding him. The person huffed at the blow, but didn't relent. Instead, he pulled Ace closer, wrapping his arms around Ace's chest, pinning his arms to his side. Ace went stock still, eyes widening in horror. Oh God no. Not again. Please. No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no. Please. Just kill me. Please. Ace's eyes squeezed shut, a tiny whimper passing his throat. He couldn't watch. "It's okay, Ace, it's okay. You're fine." Now that he was still, the voice actually made it into his consciousness. He swallowed thickly, trying to combat the suffocating terror. He knew that voice.

"…M-Marco…?" he asked, his voice tiny, weak. He could feel himself trembling. He took a shuddering breath, fingers subconsciously tightening around Marco's shirt. He didn't open his eyes. Didn't dare.

"That's right, Ace. I'm here. You're here. You're fine. Nothing bad is going to happen to you." Marco's voice was quiet, smooth. Soothing. He'd done this before. Ace's nightmares sometimes left him in anxiety for _hours._ He lifted one hand off Ace's back and placed it gently against the base of his skull, lightly stroking his hair. Ace shuddered, making a sound between a choked sob and a cry of pain. Slowly, his body began to relax. He leaned his head forward to rest against Marco's shoulder, hiding his face against his chest. His shoulders relaxed, as did his death grip on the fabric of Marco's shirt.

Thatch, meanwhile, was still recovering from the blow to his throat. He was still doubled over, one hand over his throat, the other supporting himself on the counter. He was still coughing hoarsely, but they were becoming more infrequent. _Damn_ had that hurt. His vision had literally _tunneled._ Fuck, it'd been a long time since someone had hit him that hard. Since he'd _let_ someone hit him that hard. He should have had his guard higher. And damn him, the intruder had probably gotten _far_ by now. Realizing time was of the essence, Thatch fought to straighten, gasping like a fish.

Ace, too, had an epiphany and straightened, pulling away from Marco, turning and pointing at Thatch just as Thatch pointed at him.

"He broke into your house!" they exclaimed simultaneously, equal expressions of surprise and outrage on their faces, both looking at Marco like they expected _him _to do something about it.

Marco looked between the two of them in bewilderment. That had been some damn impressive synchronism on their parts. Well. This was awkward. And definitely not what he'd expected to happen. He looked between the two for another moment, then cleared his throat.

"Well, technically, Ace is right, you _did_ steal my keys and technically break into my house, Thatch." As he spoke, his thoughts began to reorganize, the surprise and tension wearing off and his cool-headedness returning. "That's why _you'll_ apologize first." Thatch looked bewildered, but before he could speak, Marco stepped forward, between the two. He smile at Ace, gesturing to Thatch. "_This_ is Thatch. He's my adoptive brother. He wasn't expecting you to be here, that's why he was acting so aggressively." Marco turned to Thatch, gesturing at Ace. "And _this_ is Ace. He's been staying with me for a while, and will be continuing to do so for quite some time. It's _important to me,_" and here Marco smiled manipulatively, coldly. "that you _not_ upset, frighten, or hurt Ace in any way you can." Marco took a step back, still smiling. "Now, Thatch, you'll apologize to Ace for scaring him-"

"You could have warned me-"

"And Ace, you will apologize for attacking Thatch," Marco continued as if he hadn't been interrupted. He met Thatch's semi-glare evenly until finally Thatch deflated with a (hoarse) sigh, taking a step forward and extending his left hand. Ace jumped slightly, but after a moment's hesitation, stepped forward as well. He watched Thatch nervously, and the moment began to stretch into awkward. Marco cleared his throat slightly, nodding to indicate Thatch's extended hand, on Ace's right. Ace blinked and turned his head, catching sight of it for the first time. He smiled apologetically and hesitantly extended his hand as well.

"Sorry for giving you a panic attack," Thatch said, giving Marco a grumpy half-glare. Ace gave a tiny, polite smile.

"And I apologize for almost crushing your trachea." Ace said it seriously, and after a moment Thatch chuckled, retracting his hand. Ace smiled a little, but took a cautious step back, putting a little more distance between him and Thatch. Thatch didn't comment, instead turning away, back towards Ace and Marco.

"Welp. Now that I've had enough awkwardness to last me for the next year, can I please get some damn food?"

* * *

"It's called _fashion_ and just because _some_," he glared pointedly at Marco, "tasteless clods don't appreciate it doesn't mean _everyone_ doesn't." Ace still didn't really understand _why_ Thatch did his hair like he was living in the 50s, but it was apparently a touchy subject, so he didn't press it.

He'd been quiet through most of the meal. He didn't know Thatch. He didn't trust him, to be entirely honest. They hadn't exactly gotten off on a good foot, what with him giving Ace a panic attack and Ace almost breaking his windpipe. Not that Thatch seemed to hold any kind of grudge for that. On the contrary, it was almost like it'd never happened. He seemed…curious about Ace. He watched him with guarded interest, like some kind of puzzle that hadn't been solved yet. It made Ace uneasy, but Thatch never made any kind of move or indication of any kind of threat, so Ace had no excuse to dislike him. And he didn't. On the contrary, part of him actually really liked Thatch. He was funny, charismatic, and infectiously happy. The wattage of his grin could put light bulbs to shame. Marco seemed happier around him too. Relaxed. And even if Ace wasn't willing to let his guard down around Thatch, he could tell that Marco trusted him. Could tell that he was important to Marco. And if Marco had wanted to bring him back to the house, indeed, to introduce Ace to him, Ace wouldn't decline. He could deal with this, if it made Marco happy.

Through the course of the meal (luckily Ace _had_ made enough pasta for three people. He'd been planning to save the rest as leftovers) Thatch or Marco had occasionally tried to engage him more fully into the conversation. Ace would speak, but only as much as was necessary. He didn't want to expose too much of himself in front of Thatch. Again, it wasn't that Thatch seemed aggressive or really all that threatening, it was just that Ace didn't know him. Didn't know if he could or should trust him. And trust was a whole helluva lot harder now than it had been a few months ago. Thatch, for his part, seemed mostly ambivalent towards Ace. He wasn't unfriendly, but it seemed he also didn't really have much to say to him, since Ace hadn't exactly talked back when Thatch did directly address him. Thatch more…observed him. But what, exactly, he was looking for, Ace couldn't be sure.

"Say, Marco, since when can you cook? This isn't as halfway suck as most of your culinary, uh…adventures," Thatch commented. Marco opened his mouth, then closed it, glancing at Ace and smiling encouragingly. Ace licked his lips nervously.

"I cooked it," he said quietly. Thatch's eyebrows raised in apparent surprise.

"Really?" Ace nodded mutely, shifting under Thatch's continued attention. Ace saw something like respect enter his eyes. "It's good," he said simply before returning to eating. Ace blinked under the simple compliment, glancing to Marco for some kind of explanation. Marco was looking at Thatch in surprise, but, sensing Ace's gaze spoke to him.

"Thatch is the head chef at a restaurant downtown. He…" Marco snorted, smirking at Thatch humorously. "He's a bit of a food snob. Getting a compliment out of him is like pulling teeth." Ace nodded in comprehension, before turning back to Thatch and smiling slightly.

"Thank you." Thatch was scowling at Marco in a failed attempt to hide a blush. He wouldn't meet Ace's eyes.

"Yeah, well, let me know if you ever need a job. There're too many idiots with their fancy degrees from France and not enough _cooks_ in this city. I need intuitionists, not someone who can perfectly sauté sweetbreads." Ace crinkled his nose and shook his head slightly.

"That stuff is _nasty_." The words surprised even him. He hadn't intended to speak, the sentence had just kind of fallen out. He turned to look at a confused and surprised looking Marco. "Let me tell you. The name is _very_ deceiving." Thatch laughed from across the table before grinning at Ace like they'd been friends for years.

"Lemme guess: saw it on a menu and was _entirely_ disappointed by the actual dish?" Ace could only watch in shock as he automatically grinned back, words jumping out of his mouth before he'd even realized they were there.

"I almost _gagged_. I mean, at least with some food you know you're in for a rough ride just by the name, but why would they _lie_ to you like that?" Thatch laughed and even Marco – though still looking somewhat surprised – chuckled at his overly-dramatic tone. When Thatch settled, he smiled at Ace warmly.

"You know, you're not half bad, Ace. You're not half bad."

* * *

Marco shut the front door behind him, standing out in the frigid winter air, Thatch on the step in front of him.

"It's him, isn't it?" Marco looked at Thatch in confusion, not sure of what exactly he was asking. "He was the prostitute." Marco stared at Thatch in surprise for a moment, then slowly relaxed, sighing.

"Yeah. I know, I should have told you-"

"Damn right you should have-"

"It wasn't fair of me to put you on the spot like-"

"I mean, I almost scared that poor kid out of his skin!" Marco stiffened in shock, blinking, confusion evident on his face. Thatch smiled sympathetically at Marco.

"…I see what you mean now," he said softly, eyes finding the ground. "…You know. About how he couldn't be faking it." The smile had fallen off his face by now. "And even after just today, I can tell, at least a little, how hard it's gotta be for you. Because today I saw a flash of…_something_ in that kid. Something special. One in a million. And you got to see him when that's all he was, and now all you get to see is what he's been made into. I… That's gotta be really tough." He looked up, meeting Marco's wide-eyed gaze. "You're absolutely right about him, Marco. He does deserve it. He deserves a second chance." Marco blinked at Thatch in shock for a moment, then nodded.

"I… Thank you," he said. His eyebrows furrowed. "But how did you know it was him? I never told you and he never mentioned-"

"Oh please give my observational skills _some_ credit," Thatch snipped. He sighed, raising a hand and tapping his right temple. "Like you said. He's blind on one side. He didn't see my hand when we were going to shake on our apologies. He didn't see the table when he was trying to run out of the kitchen. He had to turn his head too far to reach for the forks. And…" Thatch trailed off, unsure of how to phrase it. Finally he sighed. "I… There's something I think you have a right to know." Marco blinked, confusion evident on his face.

"Um…what do you mean?" Thatch shook his head, face pulled in deep thought, but not meeting Marco's eyes.

"It's only conjecture, but…based on his behavior, I think I know what happened to him." Marco stiffened, and Thatch continued. "Of course, I can't be certain, but you know how good I am at this kind of stuff. I'm pretty damn sure about this one, Marco." Marco considered it for a moment.

"…No," he said finally. "Don't tell me. If Ace wants me to know, he'll tell me sooner or later and if he doesn't it's none of my business." Thatch nodded, looking pleased.

"…Then…how about something I think you _do_ want to hear?"

"What?" Thatch smiled at him softly.

"He really trusts you." God, how many times could Thatch stun him in one day?

"…What? How can you-"

"Not only was it your voice that calmed him down during his panic attack, which is evidence enough if you ask me, but all of the time that I was in there, me, a stranger, an unfamiliar, untrustable person? He didn't keep his blind side to the wall, Marco." Thatch looked…proud. Like Marco had achieved something unbelievable.

"He kept it to you."

* * *

(A/N: I kinda hate the end of this chapter. IT WAS REALLY GOOD IN MY HEAD. But oh well.

Anyway, yeah. I know. Bleeding Out. Yada yada yada. I'll get back to it later, I swear. But I post what I feel like when I feel like it, and encouragement helps, but there's not much you can do to actually change my mind on whether something gets posted or not.

So…yeah. Hope you can find it in your heart to enjoy the start of this drabble. I've got big plans. BIG plans. Yup. All kinds of drama and fluff and familiness and angst and all that jazz. So yeah. Enjoy, when I get the chance to post more.

OH and one more thing: title suggestions are more than welcome. I'm not feeling particularly title-inspired tonight, so your help is appreciated!

Thanks for your support, guys, and please review!

Stuff'nStuff)


	2. Chapter 2

(So guess what guys?! It's Marco's birthday! YAY! So, in appreciation of our favorite phoenix, I decided I'd write the next installment of Maybe this Year, in celebration of Marco's awesomeness. So yeah. Here you go. Hope you enjoy!

**This chapter is FLUFF. Really. That's just about it. And it takes place BEFORE chapter 1.**

**No warnings this time. Seriously. This chapter is so fluffy you'll turn into a sheep.**)

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Marco gave a tired sigh, settling down on the floor with an aged, worn book. He preferred sitting on the floor to sitting on a chair, or on the couch. It had become a little ritual of his, every night, to steal some pillows off his bed, make a pot of tea, create a makeshift…Marco didn't even know what to call it. Bed? Nest? Chair? On the floor, and settle down in the silence and stillness of the night, letting the day's tension roll away. He was comfortable. He was in his own home, all the problems of the day having already come and passed, and he had a nice cup of tea. What more could he ask for?

Marco lifted his first cup of tea, taking a moment to close his eyes and enjoy the warmth and aroma of the steam. He took a sip, mindful of the still near-scalding temperature, enjoying the flavor. Chamomile. Chamomile and honey. Sighing contentedly, Marco placed the tea beside him to cool, then cracked open the book. Fairy tales. Short stories. Poems. None of them held any deep significance, any commentary on the human condition or any of that grown-up nonsense. No, this book was something old, something from Marco's childhood.

He could still recall the warm, cozy winter nights, spent tucked up in a blanket, surrounded by his brothers and sisters, lying beside the fireside. Hot chocolate for everyone, everyone except him. He hadn't had much of a sweet tooth, even then. He always had tea. Chamomile, to help with insomnia.

And then there was Pops.

Sitting in his big old armchair, the book looking ridiculously small in his hands. He read them every story, every poem in this book hundreds of times. Warm and real and loving. Marco remembered the rosy glow that covered those nights. The way his siblings would nod off one by one beside him. The way that, if he still couldn't fall asleep, Whitebeard would hand _him_ the book, and ask him to read it to him. He'd stumbled over the words at first. But Whitebeard would just sit there and listen, smiling at him, and eventually Marco too would nod off, sometimes falling asleep on top of the book itself. It didn't matter that by now Marco could almost recite the book, cover to cover. It still helped him get to sleep on those nights when not much else could.

Marco gently opened the front cover, careful with the aged binding. He flipped back the first few pages (yellowed. He'd spilled a _lot_ of tea on this book over the years) and let his eyes rest on the words of the first story, his mind instantly conjuring the characters, sounds, and scenery of the tale.

_High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt…_

The story swallowed Marco, and he didn't count the moments as he became immersed in it, only pausing every now and then to take a sip of tea. Minutes passed, Marco unaware of it. The old clock ticked on the wall, filling the dull lamp-glow with the quiet murmur of time.

He'd just reached the fourth story when he was softly roused from his trance by a sound.

Footsteps.

Bare feet on the floor.

Marco looked up, half expecting to see an eight-year-old Thatch or Namur, trying to hide all evidence of the tears they'd shed. Marco found himself smiling comfortingly automatically, the traditional question slipping from his mouth before he had time to realize how different this situation was from how he'd comforted his brothers in his youth.

"Nightmare?" he asked softly, voice sympathetic and non-demeaning.

It was only after he'd asked the questions that all of the differences between back then and now actually registered. This wasn't Thatch. This wasn't Namur. He wasn't ten years old.

And Ace hadn't made any effort to hide his tears.

He was still sobbing, in fact. They made hardly any sound, and Marco wondered sadly why Ace would have to learn to weep silently.

"I…I saw your light and I…" Ace said shakily, trailing off. Still partially wrapped in the warmth and nostalgia of so many nights like this he'd spent before, Marco didn't hesitate, didn't weigh the consequences, didn't try to guess Ace's response. He just acted like he always had.

Still smiling at Ace, he patted a spot on the mess of pillows beside him.

Ace hesitated for a moment, shoulders trembling slightly with his continued tears, then slowly approached. Marco could see some vestige of his dreams still darkening his eyes, still making him wary, afraid.

Marco didn't really want to think about what Ace's nightmares consisted of.

Eventually, Ace settled down beside him, far enough away that no part of him even came close to touching Marco. Marco pretended not to notice, instead lifting the teapot and pouring Ace a cup. He still brought a second mug, just out of habit. All these years and he still thought his little brothers would come to him after nightmares.

He set the cup – the tea at the perfect temperature for drinking – in front of Ace, a silent invitation, but not a demand. Ace's sobs continued, silent, hitching his breath, and he made no move towards the offered drink.

Marco didn't ask. He knew, after all these years, how to recognize the difference between bad dreams and _nightmares_. You ask about bad dreams. You talk about bad dreams, because that makes them better. But you never, _never_ ask about nightmares. So Marco didn't. Instead, he flipped through the pages, coming to rest on a specific story.

"Once when I was six years old I saw a magnificent picture in a book, called _True Stories from Nature_, about the primeval forest. It was a picture of a boa constrictor in the act of swallowing an animal. Here is a copy of the drawing." Marco angled the book so Ace could see the picture. He saw light confusion in Ace's eyes, but his tears seemed to be slowing.

"In the book it said: "Boa constrictors swallow their prey whole, without chewing it. After that they are not able to move, and they sleep through the six months that they need for digestion.

I pondered deeply, then, over the adventures of the jungle. And after some work with a colored pencil I succeeded in making my first drawing. My 'Drawing Number One'. It looked like this:" Again, Marco turned the book, and this time Ace studied the image with interest, but confusion was still evident in his posture. Marco realized he'd never had this. He'd never had anyone read him storybooks before. He'd never had anyone show him the pictures. Marco felt such a surge of outrage and protectiveness that even he was shocked by it. He continued reading.

"I showed my masterpiece to the grown-ups, and asked them whether the drawing frightened them.

But they answered: "Frighten? Why should anyone be frightened by a hat?"

My drawing was not a picture of a hat. It was a picture of a boa constrictor digesting an elephant. But since the grown-ups were not able to understand it, I made another drawing: I drew the inside of the boa constrictor, so that the grown-ups could see it clearly. They always need to have things explained. My 'Drawing Number Two' looked like this:" Ace had inched a little closer, but Marco pretended not to notice, still turning the book far enough so he could see.

The story continued, and with every time that there was a new picture, Marco found Ace a little closer, a look of such wonder in his eyes that Marco wanted to scream. What kind of person wouldn't read a child picture books? Ace, so much the adult, so _forced_ to be the adult, and yet so much the child.

Ace was now close enough that Marco didn't even have to turn the book anymore, and Ace could read it over his shoulder. The tea, Marco was pleased to note, was mostly gone by now. Marco could tell Ace was getting sleepy, but he could see all the wonder of the stars shining in his eyes. Marco had always loved this story for just that reason. It captivated any reader, opened up the universe to be something far more beautiful and colorful than reality.

"I ought to have judged by deeds and not by words. She cast her fragrance and her radiance over me. I ought never to have run away from her…I ought to have guessed all the affection that lay behind her poor little stratagems. Flowers are so inconsistent! But I was too young to know how to love her…" Ace was truly nodding at this point, and Marco smiled at him tenderly.

"I believe that for his escape he took advantage of the migration of a flock of wild birds. On the morning of his departure he put his planet in perfect order. He carefully cleaned out his active volcanoes. He possessed two active volcanoes; and they were very convenient for heating his breakfast in the morning. He also had one volcano that was extinct. But, as he said, "One never knows!" So he cleaned out the extinct volcano, too. If they are well cleaned out, volcanoes burn slowly and steadily, without any eruptions. Volcanic eruptions are like fires in a chimney.

On our earth we are obviously much too small to clean out our volcanoes. That is why they bring no end of trouble upon us.

The little prince also pulled up, with a certain sense of dejection, the last little shoots of the baobabs. He believed that he would never want to return. But on this last morning all these familiar tasks seemed very precious to him. And when he watered the flower for the last time, and prepared to place her under the shelter of her glass globe, he realized that he was very close to tears.

"Goodbye," he said to the flower.

But she made no answer.

"Goodbye," he said again.

The flower coughed. But it was not because she had a cold.

"I have been silly," she said to him, at last. "I ask your forgiveness. Try to be happy…"" Marco felt a strange kind of heartache creeping into his chest.

"He was surprised by the absence of reproaches. He stood there all bewildered, the glass globe held arrested in mid air. He did not understand this quiet sweetness.

"Of course I love you," the flower said to him. "It is my fault that you have not known it all the while. That is of no importance. But you – you have been just as foolish as I. Try to be happy…let the glass globe be. I don't want it any more."

"But the wind-"

"My cold is not so bad as all that…the cool night air will do me good. I am a flower."

"But the animals-"

"Well, I must endure the presence of two or three caterpillars if I wish to become acquainted with the butterflies. It seems that they are very beautiful. And if not the butterflies – and the caterpillars – who will call upon me? You will be far away…as for the large animals – I am not at all afraid of any of them. I have my claws."

And, naïvely, she showed her four thorns. Then she added:

"Don't linger like this. You have decided to go away. Now go!"

For she did not want him to see her crying. She was such a proud flower…" Marco wondered, for honestly the first time, what had become of the flower. This part of the story struck a little too close to home for it to be the usual, lighthearted, sweet moment it normally was. For another moment he wondered what happened to the flower, then he realized he already knew.

The real flower had nightmares.

The real flower needed chamomile tea and children's stories to sleep peacefully.

The real flower had drifted off to sleep by now, face soft, breathing softer, head resting gently on Marco's shoul-

WHAT.

Marco resisted the impulse to sit bolt upright and thusly disturb the quiet breathing of the person beside him. Instead, he craned his neck slowly, gently, trying to use other sensory input to confirm the exact nature of the pressure on his shoulder.

Ace's head.

Ace's unruly black hair rubbed softly against the bare skin on his neck. It was soft, warm. His eyes were closed, his face perfectly relaxed, set in a posture of pure peace, no uneasiness or unhappiness tensing his expression. His lips were parted softly, like a baby's, air quietly passing between them in tiny, relaxed breaths. Marco felt an unbidden smile pull at his face, warmth filling his torso. He'd forgotten what it felt like, to be, even if just for a moment, someone's savior.

After a moment's hesitation, Marco slowly raised a hand, careful not to disturb his sleeping charge. He brushed his fingers gently through Ace's hair, sweeping it carefully out of his face. Ace shifted slightly in his sleep, mouth closing and pulling into a tiny smile. Marco couldn't help but smile back tenderly.

Slowly, doing everything in his power not to wake the sleeping Ace, he slipped one arm behind Ace's back. Ace barely stirred, continuing to sleep on, oblivious. Marco slowly slid the other under his knees. The sleeping Ace gave a tiny moue of dislike, brow furrowing, but he still didn't wake.

Marco carried him gently back into his room. Thankfully the covers were already pulled back from Ace's no-doubt panicked flight from bed earlier. Marco lay him softly on the mattress before gently settling the blankets back over him. Ace relaxed as soon as Marco's arm was no longer in contact with his legs – already placed on the bed – instead moving to cradle his head as he lowered it slowly to the pillow. Once Ace was settled, Marco moved to pull away, only to find one of Ace's hands fisted about his shirt. He smiled a little, and chuckled somewhat sadly. _So very like a child,_ he thought. He tenderly prized Ace's fingers away, bending a little to replace Ace's hand at his side.

Before he could think about it, before he even realized what he was doing, Marco bent a little further, hovering a breath above Ace. Slowly, he lowered his face that last centimeter, pressing his lips tenderly on Ace's forehead.

"Goodnight, Ace," he whispered into his hair.

He wondered, melancholically, what nightmares Ace's four thorns hadn't been enough to protect him against. But he realized it didn't matter. Not anymore.

Because Marco would always, _always_ be here to chase the tigers away.

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(A/N: …Honestly, this came out a little more depressing than I had planned. But I hope you still enjoyed it! Happy birthday, again, to our dear Marco! He's such a sweetie, he probably deserved a happier one-shot for his birthday. Sorry, baby, I promise I'll do better next year~!

Anyway, please review! It really helps me out and motivates me to update! Review as a present for Marco!

Oh, and can anyone (it should probably be obvious at this point…) guess which story it was that Marco was reading to Ace? Birthday cake to those that get it right! Hope you enjoyed, see you next update!

Stuff'nStuff  
PS: I PROMISE I'LL RESPOND TO REVIEWS IN THE NEAR FUTURE! LIFE'S BEEN HECTIC AND I'VE BEEN BUSY, BUT I'LL GET AROUND TO IT SOON!)


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